


Clandestine

by WreckkedRekt



Category: LazyTown
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Blood, Blood and Gore, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Violence, Drugs, F/F, Gun Violence, Guns, I'll add more later as it goes, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Knives, M/M, Other, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, References to Drugs, Sex, Smoking, So many fucking tags ohmygod, Weapons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-19 19:59:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9458267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreckkedRekt/pseuds/WreckkedRekt
Summary: Robbie Rotten has trained his whole life to be an assassin under the name of R. Agencies and his grandfather.But when he accepts the mission to take out the man he's held a long term grudge against, his mission becomes less of an nitty gritty thrillerAnd more like a rom-com from hell.





	1. Prologue: Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the hell ride known as Undercover AU!!
> 
> If you thought this was starting off with Robbo and Sporto...
> 
> Well,

 

  
**Glanni Glæpur. 11:58 A.M**  
**January 12, 1971**  
**R. Agencies, Conference Room A**

 

 

  
The word “bargain” didn't sit very well on his tongue.

 

Then again, Glanni had never been one for compromise.

He was more of a take what he wanted by force kind of guy. And if that didn't work murder or something of the sort could usually be relied upon. He didn't really give two shits so long as he, and _only_ him, came out on top in the end. Unfortunately it was _terribly_ hard to win when you were in a truce.

Glanni sighed through his teeth, the obnoxious tap-tap-tapping of his pen against the glass tabletop doing nothing to express the pent up irritation burning a hole in his chest. He spared a glance up at the clock at the far end of the conference room and watched the big hand ominously tick closer to twelve. He swallowed and looked back down at the manila folder laying in front of him, ceasing his assault on the table with his pen to start picking at the sticker scribing _Classified_ across the card stock.

 

That was another word that bothered him; _truce_.

 

Even by definition it was ridiculous, insane, intangible. How the hell was he supposed to negotiate a ceasefire with the very same man he wanted nothing more then to see rot ten feet under the ground? The CEO of LazyTown Incorporated was an egotistical, self righteous prick who thought he could just climb to the top of the food chain, kick everyone better then him down, and suffer no consequences. (Not that he himself was any better but that was beside the point)

Honestly, who did this guy think he was? Someone who had been born out of a long line of losers and failed attempts like the Schevings and had no business among the big leagues. In fact, they had no business anywhere at all.

 

 

The clock made a quiet little tick as Glanni gives a sudden sneeze. He growls under his breath, muttering profanities as his loser assistant shakily steps forward and holds out his second tissue box of the day. Glanni shoots him an evil look and rips a tissue free, shooing the little fuck away with several wild, childish flaps of his hand while blowing his nose with the other.

 

 

 _Of course I get a cold on the same day I meet with a Scheving_ , Glanni thinks, lowering his tissue and pulling out his compact to check his makeup for any smudges or flaws. Not that he cared, but he rather not look like some cheap pageant queen when trying to do business with the head LazyTown dumbass.

Suddenly there was the sound of a bell and Glanni tore his eyes up from his reflection to see the clock strike twelve and the doorknob turn. The head of one of his nameless assistants poked his head through the crack of the door.

 

“Mr. Scheving from LazyTown has arrived Mr. Glæpur Sir.”

 

Glanni rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair with a huff, propping up his chin on his fist and daintily dabbing at his nose. He stuffs his compact back into his coat.

 

“Hurry up and send him in then.”

 

The little stooge nods quickly with a muttered “Yes, Sir” and ducks his head back out the way he came. There's a brief, muffled murmur of admission before it swings back open and a small group of advisors and assistants spill through. Glanni sits up in his seat, tossing his tissue carelessly to the side while craning his head as far as he could without having to lift his chin too far off his hand. And there, from behind the rag tag team of LazyTown worker bees, Mr. Scheving himself strolls into the room.

 

Immediately, Glanni gives the man a once over, his painted lips turning downwards at the corners into a skeptical frown.

First things first: This Scheving was not at all what what he anticipated.

As Mr. Scheving strode forward he seemed to command all the power in the room, arresting everyone's attention and drawing all eyes on him. His eyes swept about the space, obviously judging everything in the room that was unfortunate enough to land in his line of sight with the upmost intensity.

Glanni couldn't help but shift with vague unease when that scathing gaze fell on him. Suddenly he felt as if he were being picked apart under a massive telescope and Glanni didn't appreciate such a feeling in the _slightest_. He sat up straighter and narrowed his eyes.

 

 

He had whole heartedly expected someone of poor class to come from a family failures and halfwits. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't imagined Mr. Scheving as a meek creature – small, hunched, and sniveling. Mousey and quiet with a pinched face and nervous eyes, maybe even some crooked glasses and a toupee if Glanni was lucky.

But no. Instead he found himself faced with someone else- something else- entirely. And all his hopes of smacking the LazyTown sap around and maybe even shoving his head in a toilet every now and then had been most unjustly dashed.

The other man is still staring him down when a LazyTown assistant zips forward and breaks their eye contact when she pulls out the conference chair at the far end of the table.

Honestly, Glanni almost wishes he could thank her for ending the tension.

 

 

Mr. Scheving grunts what Glanni assumes is supposed to be his thanks to the assistant and sits, the chair creaking under the sudden onslaught of weight. Upon closer inspection, Mr. Scheving doesn't seem to be particularly heavy as he is hefty. For god sakes, the man’s suit looked as if it were about to burst at the seams. The sleeves of the coat in particular, Glanni notes, seem to be suffering the most.

 

_Good god, could this asshole not manage to find some clothes that actually fit him? ..Unless these are the clothes that fit him._

 

Glanni squints, finding himself trying to decipher the size of Mr. Scheving’s biceps before he can think any better of it.

 

_There's no way those are his arms. I bet he just stuffed some pillows or maybe some small animals in there-_

 

 

“So I take it you are Mister Rotten?”

 

, Mr. Scheving pipes up, loudly, catapulting Glanni out of his train of thought and into the present. The other man’s eyes are boring into him again and for some reason the room suddenly seems a degree hotter. Glanni blames it on his fever and pushes this aside.

 

 _Fucking hell, he has an accent?_ , Glanni thinks bitterly, collecting himself, already wanting to gag at his rival’s heavily garbled speech the moment he hears it, _Fantastic_.

 

 

Glanni sniffs, dropping his hand down to clasp both together neatly on the tabletop, his rings clinking together.

 

“. .It's Glæpur actually.”, he corrects, adopting a smile as pleasant as he was capable of at the moment.

 

Mr. Scheving stares at him, dark brows drawing together in a scowl. Glanni can't help but think how much they contrast the rest of his sandy waves of hair. Did he fill them in or…?

 

“Glæpur?” , Scheving echoes unbelievingly, “Isn't that just another way of saying R—“

 

“Tomato-Tamato, my dear Mr. Scheving. You don't see me correcting you on your name.”

 

Glanni can feel his cordial grin growing more venomous at the mention of his proper name, but the other man is either too dense to catch on or is merely unperturbed by Glanni’s tone.

 

 

“That would be because you do not know my name.” , he replies dryly.

 

“Ah-ah! I don't know your name _yet_. Care to enlighten me?”

 

Mr. Scheving looks him up and down.

 

“No. Frankly, I do not care to at all.”

 

 

Glanni’s smile drops off his face at the speed of light and the LazyTown CEO only replies to the change in mood with opening a folder he pulls from one of his assistant’s promptly extended hand.

He clears his throat before licking his thumb and flipping through the papers enclosed within. Glanni looks down at his own folder laid in front of him, under his hands, wondering for a split second if he was supposed to open it it also.

 

“It says in your letter that you wish to discuss the terms of a, and I quote; “mutual relationship between agencies”?” , Scheving reads, glancing up over the top of the paper at him. Glanni has to choke down his wave of anger at the other man’s bored tone of voice, purposefully forcing a fake sneer onto his lips.

 

“Yes. That's right. . I'm glad you can read. Now, I think it would be beneficial to pur—“

 

“Let me stop you right there, Glæpur. You _do_ realize we are rival companies? Correct?”

 

Glanni blinks, pulling his hands off the table and into his lap so he could ball them into tight fists, manicured nails cutting deep into his palms.

 

“Well, yes, but—“

 

, he stammers, only to be cut off by the sharp _whap_ of Mr. Scheving smacking the folder and its papers onto the conference table. When the other man speaks again his voice is heavy with barely restrained disdain.

 

“Does it then _escape_ you, Mr. Glæpur, that R. Agencies has in fact attacked LazyTown Incorporated for generations now?”

 

“ _No_ I haven't forgotten or whatever. If you would just let me talk, I thought—“

 

, Glanni starts through gritted teeth, but Mr. Scheving is already ahead of him again.

 

“You thought perhaps we had forgotten then? Because otherwise I cannot think of a single, solitary reason you would be under the impression that I would ever subject my company to working alongside the very same people who have attempted to destroy their lives, their family's lives, and their careers time and time again. The very same people who would more likely stab them in the back then help them if it meant they could get their hands on an extra nickel.”

 

 

  
Silence.

 

 

Glanni pulls in a slow breath through his clogged nose as best as he can, the muscles in his jaw tightening until they threaten to snap. Mr. Scheving stares back at him, meeting his murderous glower with ease. His expression resembled that of a parent looking down at a particularly petulant child and Glanni. . .Glanni can't handle it. Being made to feel smaller then he was, being made to feel weaker, less than. He stands up suddenly, hands coming down hard on the glass table as the metal legs of his chair makes an awful screeching noise against the expensive linoleum floor.

 

“Listen Scheving. I didn't invite your entitled ass here to berate me. I'd think you'd be intelligent enough to tell the difference between me and my fucking parents.”

 

, he snaps, purple lips pulled back against his teeth. Through the corner of his eye Glanni can see his assistant shift back nervously. Meanwhile Mr. Scheving just tilts his head and folds his arms across his ridiculous chest, sitting back in his chair.

 

“Sit down Glæpur and do not play that game with me. I know plenty about you and your parents. Including what happened to them. And if you ask me, it makes you no different then them.”

 

Glanni's eyes darken, their pale blue depths smoldering with rage as his lip gave a little animalistic twitch. He pulls his hands off the table and stands straighter as an blatant “fuck you” to the other man’s order to return to his seat.

 

“They're where they deserve to be.” , Glanni says lowly.

 

Mr. Scheving huffs, his perpetual frown lifting a bit with amusement.

 

“You orchestrated it all—“

 

“ _I had nothing to do with either!_ ”, Glanni screams back, hitting the desk with a fist as his patience snaps, his violent temper flaring up before he can stop it. The explosive sound of his own voice bounces off the walls of the large room and rings in his ears. Glanni breathes heavily, only vaguely aware of the wetness creeping down from his nose, feeling all the eyes in the room focus their attention on him.

  
_Good_ , he thinks, looking around at all their uneasy faces with satisfaction , _that's the way it should be._

Eventually, the look on Mr. Scheving’s face tells him to calm down and Glanni has to reign himself back and suck in a breath. After a brief pause he smiles lazily, Glanni reaching behind him to pull his chair forward so he could fall as gracefully as he could back into it.

He ignores his assistant when he steps forward with the tissues, wiping his runny nose on the sleeve of his coat

 

“Besides. . .”

 

, he says smoothly before deftly combing his fingers through his short, choppy hair,

 

“We both know the verdict my mother and father’s ordeals, Mr. Scheving. Case closed and all that. All that matters now is that I'm CEO of this company- not my parents or anyone before them. Everything else is irrelevant. We're here to discuss business not drama, wouldn't you agree?”

 

Mr. Scheving squints, the thick blanket of freckles coating his angular face shifting with the expression; Glanni watching as hundreds of dots crinkle at the corners of his cold eyes.

Glanni folds his arms on the glass table top, leaning forward on them as he continues with a sideways smile,

 

 

“I know our families have had their differences. Hell! It's been all out war more often then not! But you. . .me. . .we’re not our parents. Or grandparents. Or fuckin’ great great great grandparents! We're new blood, Schevy! We have a whole new chance to finally end this bullshit feud! I mean, cmon, you're a smart guy. Probably. Don't you think our guys and the public has suffered enough? Now, I know I'm not perfect. I'm an asshole, I get it. But more so I'm too goddamn lazy to keep up this shit, Scheving. I'd hope you'd feel the same.”

 

 

The other man gives him a long, calculating look, one hand coming up to rub thoughtfully at his scruffy chin and it takes everything Glanni has not to break and add some petty insult to the end of his words.

Abruptly, Mr. Scheving stands up, sighing as he collects his folder and papers and hands them to his assistant when she steps forward. Glanni watches as the assistant expertly files the documents away in Mr. Scheving's briefcase and frowns when the two exchange words in hushed voices that remind Glanni too much of his parents. Finally, Scheving faces him again, rolling his shoulders back in his too tight suit. He motions for Glanni to stand also, and for once in his life, Glanni obeys.

 

“Mr. Glæpur, I want you to know I have absolutely no tolerance for lies or balderdash.”

 

, Mr. Scheving says, walking forward with stiff strides until he came to a stop just about a foot away from him.

Glanni raises an eyebrow, lips twitching up into a mean smirk. He lifts a hand, pressing a knuckle to his lips in a halfassed effort to stifle his snickering.

 

“ ‘ _Balderdash_ ’ ? What the fuck kind of word is that?” , he snorts.

 

The other man frowns at him and Glanni is delighted to see a flash of embarrassment pass through those harsh eyes.

 

“. .English is not my first language, Mr. Glæpur.”

 

“Hmph. No kidding. Maybe you should try and learn some before trying to intimidate me then.”

 

  
The other man’s hard set lips twist downwards into a warning grimace but Glanni only simpers at him and winks.

From this close, Glanni can make out more of the details of the other man's face (and the fact Mr. Scheving is considerably shorter then him, another win). He lets his eyes trace a particularly thick scar curving up his chin from the underneath of his jaw, separating the mass of freckles with a slice of paler, puffy pink flesh.

 

_That looks recent. I bet he got it from something stupid, like tripping on a coffee table or one of his twenty-three cats or something._

 

  
“—accept your offer to form a truce between LazyTown Incorporated and R. Agencies.”

 

 

, Mr. Scheving was saying in that thick, monotone voice of his.

Glanni blinks, coming back to earth and feeling his nose starting to drip again.

 

“. .Huh?”

 

Mr. Scheving stares at him as if he's committed some serious crime against him, then rolls his eyes and huffs sharply through his nose. He looks down, reaching into his suit jacket and producing a small orange handkerchief.

 

  
“I said I accept your offer for a truce, Glæpur.” , Mr. Scheving repeats as he takes a step forward and lifts the handkerchief to Glanni's nose.

 

  
He almost chokes when he feels the other man gently wipe at his nostril. The gesture lasts half a second but feels like hours, and Glanni feels like he's watched half his life pass by the time Mr. Scheving tucks the little square of cloth into his limp hand. The shorter man looks up at him, and Glanni finally takes it in that his eyes are blue.

 

“My name is Íþróttaálfurinn.” , Scheving says, stepping back and away.

 

  
He has to take a second to process before responding,

 

“Glanni.”

 

  
Íþró’s lips seem to tilt just a bit. Glanni guesses its supposed to be a smile. Íþró turns on his heel, taking his briefcase from his assistant as he made his way to the door.

 

  
“Maybe if all goes well, Mr. Glanni, we can now both correct each other's names.”

 

  
, he calls over his shoulder a moment before he's out the door without a second glance.

  
Glanni doesn't even hear the door close. The moment the other man is gone, his eyes drift down to the little orange handkerchief stuffed into his palm.

He unfolds it carefully, running his thumb over the unused corner, almost laughing at the cliche absurdity of it all.

 

 

It's silk.

 


	2. Enmity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard being Rotten

 

The room shook with thunderous applause.

 

It was dark backstage, nearly pitch black. Slivers of blue and red and yellow danced across the floor, cutting through the suffocating darkness from between the cracks in the curtains. The sound of hundreds- thousands –of hands clapping just for him and him alone shook him to his very core. It reverberated up his spine all the way to his shellshocked brain. He felt dizzy, positively lightheaded.

 

 _This was happening_ , he thought, trying to suck in a gulp of air as the floorboards beneath his feet trembled under the force of the pandemonium outside, _This was happening!_

 

Yes, today was the day Betty Crocker herself would award him the “Best Person In the History of People Who Have Existed Ever” award.

Robbie can't help but bounce on the balls of his feet, feeling his heart knock against his rib cage as the roar of the crowd outside reaches a tumult. He reaches up, hands clammy and trembling as he adjusts his bow tie.

 

_I can do this. All these people are here to see me. No ones going to laugh at you. It's not a joke this time. It's not a joke-_

 

Out of nowhere there's a hand on his shoulder, yanking Robbie back to reality.

 

 

“Mr. Rotten we're ready for you.”

 

 

He feels his stomach leap into his throat at the contact and Robbie whirls around, grabbing his assailant’s hand and twisting it back. However, the moment his frazzled brain registers the face of his supposed attacker, Robbie feels his face flare up in an instant and he releases the hand he's crushing in his grip.

Ryan Seacrest is staring back at him, looking rather scandalized and taken aback by Robbie's outburst as he rubs his wrist. He's wearing a gold sequin suit and fuchsia tie, standing in a size too big cowboy boots with big shiny spurs on the heels. Robbie tries not to be offended by such an... odd fashion ensemble. Instead he drags his eyes up from the hideous turquoise monstrosities on Ryan's feet and forces himself to meet his dreamy eyes.

 

Did he say dreamy?

He meant..uh, brown.

 

“You alright there tiger?” , Ryan laughs, awkwardly, raising his hands good-naturedly in surrender. He's beaming at him now that his shock has worn off and Robbie reaches up to tug at his collar, feeling suddenly way too hot.

Robbie nods and avoids any and all eye contact to keep himself from making some humiliating flustered expression. The last thing he needed right now was to make even more of an idiot of himself.

 

 

“Er. Yeah, yes..” , he stammers as he scratches at the back of his neck, lowering his head a degree and pulling his shoulders up, “Sorry. A-About that..”

 

 

Ryan laughs again, eyes twinkling. His laugh is everything Robbie has ever dreamed it'd be. It's joyful and full of fondness and God Robbie can feel his face reheat with a fresh wave of warmth.

The host waves his hand, chuckling.

 

 

“We all get a little jumpy before a big show, my man! Don't sweat it."

 

 

Seacrest pats him heartily on the back and this time Robbie doesn't try to break his hand. He almost smiles with him but stops himself just in time to just wiggle his nose and sniff in reply.

There's a loud crackle of electricity that splits the air as the microphone out onstage is brought to life. Robbie swallows when he hears the booming announcement of the next guest; him. Ryan throws his hands up, practically jumping out of his repulsive boots with excitement.

 

“That's you Robbie!” , he exclaims, grabbing Robbie by the shoulders and shaking him as violently as he could manage with the absurd difference in height.

 

“That's me. Robbie.” , Robbie echoes meekly, heart rocketing in his chest once again.

 

 

Mr. Seacrest is slapping him on the arm now, shouting words of encouragement that Robbie can no longer hear. Even when he's being ushered onstage he's completely numb. Bright lights pop in his eyes like fireworks- the crowd of screaming onlookers going absolutely mad now, their hands thrown up high and holding up banners while jumping up and down in their places as if their very lives depended on it. Robbie spots a few signs amongst the chaos that read “Villain Number One” and “We Love You Mr. Rotten” ands swears he can feel his heart skip a beat.

Despite the horrible throbbing in his skull from all the noise and wild lights, Robbie couldn't help but feel a sense of confidence washing over him with every stride. He wills his shaken legs to carry him forward. He lifts a hand and waves to the raging mob, elated to see the masses reply with an enthusiastic roar. A big genuine grin spreads across his face, tilting his lips upward at an exaggerated, almost goofy angle and he feels a split second of panic at what he must look like with such a stupid expression. Yet to his surprise, and immense relief, his fans only seem to react with double the amount of ardor.

 

. . . _Maybe my smile isn't that bad._

 

Squinting against the glare of the multicolored spotlights, Robbie refocuses and looks ahead. With one hand raised to shield his eyes he makes his way forward towards center stage. The form of the podium and a woman gradually materializes out of the brilliance blinding him. Betty Crocker’s face comes into view as he comes closer. She's a gentle looking woman and is wearing some waffle getup that reminds Robbie way too much of StrawBerry Shortcake and her gang’s food themed outfits.

Honestly, he never really thought of Betty Crocker was like. . .an actual person. Robbie had always just assumed she was some figurehead, a face on a syrup bottle.

 

_Go figure._

 

The woman smiles at him, pleasant round face soothing Robbie's nerves as he approaches her.

He stops beside the podium and forces himself to smile one more time as Mrs. Crocker reaches a dainty hand out to him. Robbie steps forward and moves to high five her extended palm, but freezes a moment before he makes contact.

 

_Fuck, this is a handshake._

 

He glances at the crowd then belts out a much too loud laugh in an uncomfortable attempt to cover up his mistake, wiping his sweaty palm on his pant leg before looking back at Betty and accepting the gesture. Betty Crocker gives a soft giggle and smile. She retracts her hand and leans over the podium to tap the microphone attached there. She clears her throat into the speaker and the audience quiets to a low hum. Robbie swallows as Betty's soft eyes settle back on him.

 

“Are you Mister Robbie Rotten?” , she asks, and it takes everything he has not to wince at her voice blaring out of the ill tuned amps fixed overhead.

 

 

Robbie smooths the lapels on his suit against his chest, choking down a smart-ass comment about what a dumb question that was. Who else would he be?

 

 

“Yes. Yes I am, that's me. Robbie Rotten.” , he confirms, loudly, smugly, looking out into the crowd again. He shoots a cocky wink into the spectators and is immediately rewarded by a shrill scream from some unknown person. But when he looks back to Betty she's staring at him, eyes wide and unblinking. Her smile suddenly seems too stiff and too big and toothy for her small face. It sends a trickle of ice down Robbie's spine.

 

“You?”

 

, she says, head ticking to the side and her neat little eyebrows tilting up,

 

“But..oh dear..you're a loser.”

 

 

In less then an instant the entire room is plunged into mind numbing silence. The twirling lights are hanging by their cords from the rafters, shattered colored bulbs sitting grey and useless in their sockets. The massive throng of patrons is gone and all that's left are empty chairs sitting sadly on the stripped floor and torn banners scattered down the aisles and over broken arm rests. Yet somehow Robbie can swear he can hear laughter all around him, pressing in on all sides like some sick compactor squeezing the life out of him.

 

He can't breathe again. _God why can't I breathe?_

 

Robbie takes a small step back and looks around wildly, knowing there's no one there to help him but unable to stop himself from hoping so anyways. He was trapped. He was horribly trapped and there was nowhere to go, no one to save him. It was all a trap, he should've never came here-

 

“I…I'm sorry—Wh—“ , he manages to choke out before Mrs. Crocker cuts him off with a disappointed click of her tongue.

 

“I mean, look at you”

 

, she says sadly, gesturing to him up and down, shaking her head and letting out a long sigh,

 

“There's nothing left in you..”

 

 

Robbie can feel his eyes burning with tears, his vision blurring as Betty reaches forward to knock twice on the center of his chest. A terrible hollow sound echoes under her knuckles, as if he's made out of wood rather then flesh and bone. There's no laughter in his ears now. Only that empty sound is hanging in the air and bouncing dully off the walls of his skull.

That's when the first tear falls. And Robbie puts his hands over his face, knowing they'll never stop.

 

\---

 

**Robbie Rotten, 6:04 a.m.**

**January 15, 2017**

**R. Agencies, Housing Complex A, Private Room 001**

 

 

His eyes are stinging and someone is knocking at the door.

 

Those are the first two, and only two, things Robbie can comprehend when he comes to, the grey dusty ceiling of his quarters coming into focus high above him, past the slow turning, creaking fan hanging there haphazardly.

  
He drags a hand down his face, groaning when the movement sends a pulse of pain through his body resonating from the back of his head. He lays his forearm across his eyes, the pressure slowly easing away the burn behind them. Breathing out, he drops his arm back to his side and turns his head to face his right. There on the wall he comes face to face with his jumbo poster of Ryan Seacrest. The image of his future husband is holding a stack of meticulously stacked presents wrapped in funky patterned paper, a maraca in his free hand and an eternal grin fixed on his bright face.

  
Robbie frowns back at the poster.

 

  
_Don't look at me like that_ , he thinks, as if Ryan can actually hear him, _You left me alone with that waffle cunt. Take your fucking dumb ass maraca and go away until you learn how to say sorry._

 

  
He lets out an agitated huff and rolls over to face the other direction and then onto his stomach. Settling himself back into the stiff mattress, he presses his face into his multitude of purple and orange pillows. He's just starting to drift off again when that knock from earlier punches him in the side of the head again.

 

**_Knock Knock._ **

 

Robbie grimaces and pulls his comforter over his head. _Maybe if I ignore it, it'll go away,_ he thinks.

 

 ** _Knock Knock_**.

 

Robbie squirms in his bed, not wanting to accept the possibility that the noise was most likely in fact not a sentient sound with its own evil agenda to conspire against him, but really a person who probably had a good reason to be waking him up.

 

_**Knock Knock**._

 

Well they couldn't knock forever. And who cares what the reason was, he was trying to sleep over here!

 

**_Knock Knock._ **

  
“Oh my god.”

  
**_Knock Knock._ **

  
“Just give me twenty more minutes”

  
**_Knock Knock_**.

  
“Okay that's it--!”

, Robbie snarls, throwing the pillow beside his head across the room as hard as he possibly could. The purple cushion of fluff slams into the door at top speed, silencing the idiot on the other side mid-knock. Robbie sits up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and clambering to full height as he continues, voice dripping with hate,

“Knock _one more_ time fucker and I'm pulling your arm off and beating you to _death_ with it.”

 

Apparently the threat is enough, because whoever it is remains completely silent. Robbie nods, content with himself, and shuffles over to his dresser to pull out some black slacks and some expensive looking white sweater he doesn't remember buying. As he changes out of his pajamas and into his clothes he glances up at the clock mounted beside Poster Ryan's head.

 

_6:15. Great._

 

Robbie doesn't bother to look in the mirror as he grabs his hair and makeup bag off the top of his dresser. He steps into some laceless boots beside his bed and sucks in a deep breath before trudging as miserably and dramatically as he was physically capable of towards the door, dreading which brainless goon his grandfather had sent to collect him.

 

 _I hope it's Flobby. That one doesn't fucking talk_.

  
He hunches his shoulders and grabs the doorknob after undoing the five overly complex locks bolted to the frame, swinging open the door. Of fucking course _Bobby_ is the one on the other side, the shorter man looking up from whatever random spot on the ground he was staring at and beaming the moment he sees Robbie's unimpressed face.

 

 

"Robbie! G’mornin’ buddy!!”, he crows, throwing his arms wide and flashing all his too big, too white teeth, “You ready to sssstart the day?!”

 

 

Whatever level of absolutely deadpan Robbie's face is at the moment, he's a hundred percent sure it's tripled now. And he makes sure to stare Bobby down until the other man's brilliant smile falters and his arms awkwardly lower to his sides.

  
_Better_ , Robbie thinks, sniffing through his nose and going to shut the door again, deciding that ya know what, none of this was really worth it. However Bobby throws his foot in the door in the nick of time. Robbie narrows his eyes as if presented with a challenge and suddenly pushes the door back open, using his massive frame to his advantage by shoving Bobby out of his way with the door itself. The other man makes an obnoxious noise of surprise as Robbie pins him between the door and the wall, Robbie not bothering to wait for Bobby to pull his head out of his confused ass before starting his way down the narrow hallway.

 

  
Unfortunately Robbie is unlucky enough to hear Bobby cry out for him to wait after shutting the door behind. He rolls his eyes, hunching over further in annoyance when Bobby’s bumbling footsteps draw closer as he rushes to catch up with him.

 

“Ya know why Mr. Glæpur sent me yeah?” , Bobby pesters, a bit breathless as he struggles to keep up with Robbie's unbelievably long paces.

  
“I can guess.” , he replies dryly, making a sharp turn down the hall leading to the locker rooms, hoping to lose the little nuisance. Bobby stumbles a bit but keeps up with him, jogging now.

 

 

“Ya slept in Robbie.”

“Uh huh.”

“Ya can't _do_ that Robbie.”

“Whatever.”

 

 

“I'm serious, ya gonna get in trouble. Ya know how Glanni is about bein’ punctual for missions an’ all. Especially yours.” , Bobby presses, looking up at him sternly and somehow managing to be nimble enough to slip in alongside him when he steps into the locker room.

 

Robbie huffs, feeling his nose twitch involuntarily as he steps up to his locker, entering his code into the keypad and waiting for the buzzer to sound signaling the lock had been undone.

 

 

“Thanks for enlightening me, Bobby. Not like I know or work for the guy or anything.”

 

 

The little green bulb above the keys beeps and Robbie pulls the locker open and pulls out the supply bag inside waiting for him. Robbie unzips it and upon closer inspection it seems to have been prepped and loaded by the Supply division the night before as expected.

 

Robbie slings the pack over his shoulder and moves aside a few discarded books and tech manuals, pushing a heap of Hostess cake wrappers out of his way to wrap his hand around his rifle and carefully extract it from it's safe corner in the back of the locker. He pulls the massive thing free, a smile pulling his lips upwards as he looks over the weapon with unmistakable affection.

  
“How did you sleep Doll?” , he purrs to the gun, not taking his eyes off his beloved friend as he shuts the locker, Bobby standing off to the side momentarily forgotten. The other man shifts uncomfortably where he stands, lifting a hand to rub at his arm as if he's not sure how he should be reacting.

 

  
You'd think after years he'd get used to this.

 

  
“..Robbie. I'm tellin’ ya this stuff because I'm worryin’, ya know?”

 

  
“No..I don't know.” , Robbie murmurs, only half paying attention as he checks over Doll’s stock, barrel, and such over and over with feverish compulsion. Bobby sighs loud, shoving his hands in his pockets.

 

  
“I don't want tha’ boss mad at ‘cha again. You barely skated by last time. I dunna’ what you think about me an’ the other guys but we don't like to see ya in trouble like that.”

 

  
Robbie finally looks tears his eyes off Doll and directs his focus towards Bobby.

  
“Really, Bobby, I don't think of you or the other two failed stooges much at all.” , he replies meanly, lip twitching.

 

  
Bobby is obviously used to the unkind treatment and just shakes his head at him, looking more tired then hurt (much to Robbie's chagrin).

 

  
“Robbie what's the matter with you today ?” , he sighs, “Why are you being like this?”

 

  
The exhausted tone in Bobby’s voice strikes a cord deep in Robbie's chest, and for a reason he cannot place he feels the sting in his heart race all the way up to his brain. Tears are vaguely pressing at the back of his eyeballs and Robbie can feel himself grow hot with anger. Anger at himself. Rage at the thought that this scrawny little shit had made him feel _threatened_.

  
Robbie hefts Doll over his other shoulder so fast Bobby flinches when the butt of the rifle barely misses his face when it swings by.

“Wanna know what my problem is Bobby?”

  
, he snaps, throwing his hands around in the air, his controlled expression fracturing under the weight of his anger,

  
“Betty Crocker is a bitch!!”

 

Robbie shoves past him, making a plethora of loud growling noises as he stomps out of the locker room, Bobby watching after him as he shoves some poor sap named Jimmy into a trash can on his way out.

 

Bobby blinks, deflating the moment the bigger man's words fully register.

 

He lifts a hand, scratching the top of his head quizzically while some guys tried to help Jimmy out of the trash can in the background.

 

“Betty _Crocker_ …….?”

 

 

\---

 

By all accounts, Robbie should've expected he'd get a call from his grandfather. He just didn't expect it to be in the middle of his fucking job.

 

  
He was under a rather luxurious looking SUV, a screwdriver held between his teeth as he pulled out a wrench from his bag, twisting the bolts of the bomb into place when his earpiece beeped expectantly in his ear. Snarling deep in his throat and ready to rip Bobby or who the fuck ever a new asshole for interrupting his work, Robbie spits the screwdriver out of his mouth and onto his chest and pulls a hand back to press the back button on his comm.

 

  
“What the fuck?” , he hisses quietly into the speaker, not having the mental capacity to even attempt a useless greeting.

  
“Twenty seven years I've raised you Robbie and you fuckin’ talk to me like that? Shut up."

 

 

The voice grating against his eardrum is the unmistakable repugnant one of his grandfather Glanni and Robbie almost whacks his head on the SUV’s axel above him.

 

_  
Fucking god damn—_

 

 

  
“Sorry _Sir_. What do you need _Sir_?”

  
“Don't use that fucking attitude with me, Robert. I'm not in the mood for your childish bullshit today, you hear me?”

  
“Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

 

 

  
_Dickhead_. , he adds silently as he sets aside the wrench and picks the screwdriver off his chest. He dials in the passcode to the timer, pressing the head of the driver into the reset button before punching in the correct numbers.

  
“What do you need?”

  
He can hear Glanni shift on the other end of the comm and the rustle of papers.

  
“What I need is to know if you’ve watched the television lately, asshole.”

  
Robbie makes a face and squints up at the bomb as he rolls the connectors between the two wires together. Television? Was he seriously butting into his work _he_  assigned him himself to ask him about TV?

 

 

  
“What? I mean, I guess yeah. I watched the Power Puff Girls last night—“

  
“No dumbass I mean the news. _Actual_ television?”

  
“Okay excuse you, the Power Puff Girls is fucking fantastic at four in the mor—“

  
“Robbie oh my _god_ shut up and _listen to me_! Are you somewhere with a television? Go somewhere with a television. Now, chop chop, lets go.”

 

 

He grits his teeth, grinding them together in a desperate effort to keep his trap shut as he mutters a low “Yes your _majesty_ ”

  
Glanni is as smug as can be on the other end. “Good boy Robert.”

 

 

 

After setting the countdown and wiping the underneath of the car clean, Robbie gathers up his stuff and makes haste to his car a few blocks down the way, feeling terribly on edge with Glanni sitting and waiting none too patiently in his ear the whole way there. He deposits his tools and such into the back of his car, under the seat in the compartment with Doll and locks it up tight.

  
Ignoring Glanni's breathing rattling around in his head, he checks himself in the mirror for any grease stains and carefully touches his hair. For being in such a rush on the way over he really did a great job with his makeup and hair in the car. ….Even if it had meant swerving a few times when he was applying his eyeshadow.

 

“The fuck is taking so damn _long_?” , Glanni's voice yells, cutting though  Robbie's prideful gloating in the car’s side view mirror. Robbie scowls and stands up straight, looking both ways before crossing the street, heading towards a small café there on the street corner.

 

“Be quiet, Jesus. You're gonna blow my ear out with all your elderly shrieking.”

 

“Fuck off. You find a TV yet?”

 

 

Robbie enters the patio to the café, being careful where he places his feet so he doesn't bump his hips on the little tables. He looks up, locating a small television sitting high up above the sitting area, the national new playing on quietly. Making his way to a table at the farthest end of the space, beside the patio fence, he pulls out a chair and sits facing the screen.

 

“Yeah.”

  
“Good. Now watch it.”

 

Not bothering to ask why, Robbie sighs through his nose and picks up the menu layer out on the tabletop out of the need to hold something. A sweet looking older waitress soon hurries over to him and sets down a complementary hot tea in front of him. He forces a tense smile at her as a dismissal and she nods in understanding before hurrying off inside again. He sets aside the menu and picks up the little delicate cup before him, lifting it to his lips and sipping at it as he watches images on the news flicker by.

  
He's about to ask what the actual hell was he supposed to be watching when in that moment the image of a happy looking man clad all in blue pops onto the screen with the headline **_“LazyTown Hero Sportacus Scheving Saves The Day Again! Rescues 3 Kittens From Wild Warehouse Fire_** ** _!_** ”.

 

Robbie can feel his hands twitch before they actually do, the name Scheving boring into his corneas.

 

 

“Do you see him? That happy go lucky loser on screen right now?”

 

 

Robbie can barely make a noise of confirmation as he watches the news anchor run up to the man. He turns around, soot on his tan face and a blond poof of curly hair hanging in his blue eyes as he wipes his forehead and greets the man with way too much joy to be real for someone standing in front of a massive aflame building.

 

 

“That chipper fuck is Sportacus Scheving. He works for that shit cooperation LazyTown. In the city of LazyTown. Dumb isn't it? Anyhow, I got a mission coming up with your name on it.”

 

 

Robbie feels far away, only hearing Glanni's voice as a distant sound.

 

 

The man Sportacus looks into the camera and smiles and Robbie can feel his insides twisting up into painful knots.

 

 

“. . .—thought you'd like it. Considering he's the son of the assholes who killed your parents and stuck your punk ass with me and all. I need someone to assassinate Sportacus Scheving and the CEO of LazyTown at the World Gala in a year. Think on it, Robert.”

 

  
There's a click as the connection is cut off.

 

Far far far in the distance there a loud **_ka-kaboom_** and a thick plume of smoke and fire swirls high into the sky, reaching over the tops of buildings and darkening the air with ash. People in the café around him shout in surprise.

 

 

 

He can hear screaming down the streets and car alarms wailing in the mayhem.

 

The cup slips through his fingers and topples out of his grip, spilling hot tea all over his lap and staining his seven hundred dollar pants. But it's not because of the explosion.

 

All he can see and hear is that name.

 

 

 

 

 

 _Scheving_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooo buddy that was wild™ huh? I wonder who the next chapter is about ....


End file.
